


too little too late

by stardawn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8201188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardawn/pseuds/stardawn
Summary: Han Solo doesn't cry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a little ficlet for a tumblr prompt and normally I wouldn't post something this short to AO3 but people seemed to like it so?? maybe someone here will too
> 
> I'm actually not super used to writing established relationship fics so this was a little hard! hopefully they come across genuine enough. I think it's interesting to imagine what might cause Han to break down-- he's so unflappable and yet he clearly struggles to negotiate that with his tender heart. it's one of my favorite parts of his character, that conflict

Han Solo doesn’t cry.

Maybe Han Solo the street urchin, the filthy child snatching credits from loose pockets. He might have cried, before the world’s true workings were clear to him, before he could laugh at it all instead. Before his tears dried up in the quick fire of anger, and he learned that a blaster solved more problems than pity ever did.

_Would you be interested in leading a small squadron to Ymel, General Solo?_

Han Solo doesn’t cry, especially not for the dead.

Especially not for the suicidal pilots that fly screaming metal death traps, held together by the barest of repairs allowed by an Alliance budget stretched thin. They know, they all know, that every flight could be their last.

_Good mission for the new recruits. Been scouting the base for weeks, no signs of heavy guard. Fly ‘em in, General, but hold back, you know? It’s their first try with a real Remnant outpost, they need to learn how to secure it._

Han Solo doesn’t cry, not even for children.

For goddamn children, barely old enough to enroll in the Academy if they want to. But they don’t. They want to throw their lives away being a part of something big, something good, and they’re too young and foolish to understand what it means to forfeit everything to it. To the Rebellion.

_You did what you could, General. None of us could have expected that ambush. It’s not your fault._

 

“It’s not your fault,” Luke says softly, the first words he’s spoken in what must have been eons. If he were sober, Han might have jumped at the noise, loud as it was in the deafening silence of the dimly-lit conference room they’ve locked themselves in.

That Han had locked _himself_ in, by _himself_ , _alone_ but for the bottle of Corellian cognac he’s nursed for a good couple hours now. But who knew that the Force could unlock doors? Or that it mysteriously clouded its user’s respect of privacy for the mourning and the intoxicated?

But he can hardly spurn Luke’s company. He barely sees him anymore despite ostensibly _dating_ the damn guy, with all his Jedi business, and Han can’t pretend he doesn’t miss him terribly. Luke knows what happened at Ymel, wouldn’t have come otherwise, but up until now he’d been silent, content to sit with Han as he took swig after swig. But his words draw Han out of the merciful buzz of alcohol and back into the moment.

Damn right it wasn’t his fault. What could they expect him to do? The first ship down was a cold wash of dread, but the kid had gotten cocky, flew in too close. But then another X-Wing went down, and another, and another-- and far too late he’d realized the trap. Unforgivably late. If he’d noticed sooner, if he’d acted sooner-- if he hadn’t gotten so caught up in the training and had trusted his own goddamn instinct--

Tears sting, painful and bitter and embarrassing, at the corner of his eyes, and his hand balls into a fist so tight his nails cut into his palms. He won’t cry. He _won’t_ cry. Han Solo doesn’t--

“Han,” Luke says, a note of surprise in his quiet voice as he leans over to catch Han’s gaze. “Are you... crying?”

“No,” Han says, but it’s too late to stop the wet trail that streaks down across his cheek, damning him. A deep and defensive shame wells up and he pulls away from Luke’s extended hand like it’s on fire, pushing himself out of the chair as if he’s about to storm out of the room. But the alcohol rushes up all at once into his brain and Han stumbles, nearly toppling over the conference table in his haste.

But he doesn’t, because Luke’s hands wrap firmly around his arms and hold him steady, and Han wonders through a dizzy haze how the other man can move so damn fast. For a moment, Han can only waver unsteadily in Luke’s grip, but then his eyes blink down to meet Luke’s. Wide and blue and too pretty to be real, they stare up at Han from underneath knit brows, cutting straight through to Han’s soul. He swallows down the knot that rises in his throat, more stubborn tears welling up at the surge of emotion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, and his voice breaks halfway through.

“Like what?” Luke’s brow crinkles more and there’s a flicker of hurt behind those eyes. The knife in Han’s heart twists cruelly and another drop slides hot and shameful down his face.

_Like I ain’t the hero you thought I was._ He can’t say it aloud, can’t admit how much the thought crushes him. Of all the people to see him like this, it has to be Luke. Luke, who’d looked at him like no one had ever looked at him before. Like Han meant something to him-- _Han_ , not his ship, not his skills, but Han Solo the person. Like he was the whole world to this kid, a _hero_ , someone to look up to. What a rich goddamn thought that is.

He’s startled from the thought by Luke’s fingers against his cheek, gentle where he brushes the tear away.

“It’s not your fault,” Luke says again, and it’s the sincerity in his voice that finally makes Han break down completely.

With a shuddering breath he pulls Luke close, burying the choked sound that escapes him in the crook of the other man’s neck. In the familiar scent of him held so close, in the tight embrace of Luke’s arms as they wrap almost desperately around him, Han shakes with uncommon emotion as his tears spill out unbidden against Luke’s shoulder. He’s sobbing, sobbing like a _child_ , and no matter how quiet his weeping the shame still settles sick and heavy in his stomach. He’s a goddamn disgrace. Leads a dozen kids to their death, not one of them older than Luke had been back on Tatooine. Doesn’t intervene soon enough, doesn’t call to pull them out until there’s no one left to flee. Doesn’t see the signs of a clear ambush set for them. Like _hell_ it’s not his fault.

Luke is mercifully quiet, a soothing hand at his back and a strong weight that holds Han up as he wavers. Too good for him. Han’s hand balls around the fabric of Luke’s dark shirt like he’ll disappear from underneath him if he loosens. Hell, it’s not like Luke hasn’t seen him in worse condition-- he sure wasn’t a pretty sign right out of carbonite. But he’s never _cried_ in front of Luke before.

Han Solo doesn’t cry. Not when other people can see it.

 

He doesn’t know how long it is before the tears stop coming and he’s just sniffling pathetically against Luke’s soaked shoulder, but at some point Luke shifts underneath him and pulls away slightly. Han’s grip on him tightens at first, not ready to give up his comforting warmth, until the brush of Luke’s lips against the lobe of his ear sends a tingle down his spine. He swallows and relents his grasp, pulling back enough that he can meet Luke’s lips, a sweet taste of love he hardly deserves.

“It’s alright to cry, you know,” he says when Han pulls away, hands sliding down to wrap loosely around Han’s hips.

“Don’t read my mind, kid,” Han grumbles, voice rough and eyes swollen from his failure. Luke shakes his head, a small and gentle smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve told you I can’t do that, Han.” He rubs Han’s face again, a little bolder, wiping away what moisture still clings. “I don’t need to, anyway. You’re not as good at pretending nothing bothers you as you think.”

“Good to know,” Han sighs, but he doesn’t resists the embrace Luke pulls him back into. His hand rises to run through the other man’s soft hair, chin resting against the curve of Luke’s head where he tugs him close. “Sorry I ain’t the paragon of self control I oughta be.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Luke insists, far too patient for Han’s self-pitying. “You can’t bottle up _everything_ , Han. It’s alright to cry sometimes.”

“Doesn’t do any good.” Han’s brow crinkles and he shakes his head from where it rests, swallowing down another lump that threatens to rise. “Won’t bring any of them back.”

“It’s not your fault, Han.” His hand slides up Han’s back and down again, slow and soothing. A touch he could melt into. “None of us expected an ambush on Ymel. You did everything you could.”

Han swallows again, blinking stubbornly against the sting of more tears. “I can almost believe you, kid, when you say it like that.”

“I love you,” Luke says then, voice muffled against the fabric of Han’s shirt where he nuzzles close. They rarely get to be this close anymore, not with the thousand directions they’re both pulled in by the ongoing war with the Empire’s remnants. The warmth of it spreads through Han’s core. “Do you believe that?”

“Yeah,” Han murmurs into soft blonde bangs, unsure of what he’s done to deserve this but wholly selfish enough to smile, just a little, at his luck. “Yeah, I do.”

Han Solo doesn’t cry. He’s never felt safe enough. But here, in Luke’s arms, perhaps he is.


End file.
